


where the love light gleams

by ladyeggplant



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Pining, asking him to go into the woods and chop down a christmas tree with him, just a bro standing in front of another bro, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyeggplant/pseuds/ladyeggplant
Summary: Tito's going to save Christmas, even if it kills him.
Relationships: Mathew Barzal/Anthony Beauvillier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 155





	where the love light gleams

**Author's Note:**

> everything here is very much fiction, but some things are EXTRA fiction, including (but not limited to): if Mat still lives with the Seidenbergs, the current length of his hair, Costco's holiday hours, and the weather
> 
> things that are unfortunately NOT fiction: the Throgs Neck Bridge

“What do you think?”

Heavy lidded eyes glance up over the top of the magazine rack to the gift card Tito’s holding up. Ebs tilts his head. “I mean, a hundred dollars is gonna buy a _lot_ of Chipotle, but if you’re all stocked up on Pepto...”

“I mean,” Tito asks, “is a gift card like, a cop out gift?”

“Kind of depends,” Ebs shrugs, flipping through the latest issue of _People,_ Meghan Markle gleaming from the glossy cover, bold print promising a detailed expose of the royal couple’s Christmas plans. Ebs has this weird fixation on the Royal Family—Tito’s not entirely sure Ebs knows that Britain isn’t ruled by a monarchy anymore, and at this point he’s kind of too afraid to ask. Ebs flips another page, wincing. “Man, Aaron Carter is _not_ doing well, huh?”

“I don’t know who that is—look, do you think Barzy would like this or not?”

“What do you mean you don’t know who Aaron Carter is?” Ebs flaps the magazine at him. “‘‘Aaron’s Party, Come and Get It,’ ‘Oh, Aaron’—_the classics.”_

Tito’s eyes slip shut. “Ebs, can you focus for just like, three seconds?”

“If you’re telling me you’ve never experienced the euphoria of hearing ‘That’s How I Beat Shaq’ for the first time, then no. No I can’t.”

Tito heaves out a huge breath, jamming the card back onto the spinning rack. “Forget it—don’t know why I even bothered….”

They’ve been in Target for close to two hours now, after expressly agreeing that they were only there to get gifts for the locker room grab bag. Get in and get out. But somewhere between the dollar section and the toys, that plan got flipped on its head and they wound up spending thirty minutes sniffing cheap candles, twenty convincing Ebs that he doesn’t need a tape dispenser shaped like a dachshund, and another hour lost in home decor looking at shit neither of them would ever buy. The fluorescent glare of the overhead lights, the constant stream of people coming from all directions, talking loudly on their phones, ignoring their shrieking kids and shoving shit they suddenly decide they don’t want into any available nook or cranny—Tito’s brain is about to have a Chernobyl-level meltdown.

“Just get him like...” Ebs waves a hand. “Some _Office_ merch or something. We saw those Dunder Mifflin boxers back in the guys section.”

“Everyone always gets him _Office_ stuff,” Tito groans, sagging against the side of the shopping cart.

“So?” Ebs says, a silent challenge. Tito can see it, in his raised eyebrow and slanted mouth—he wants Tito to spell it out for him, because Ebs needs fodder for the group chat that’ll distract everyone from continuously roasting him for misspelling his own name. Now anytime he asks for directions or if anyone’s seen his sunglasses, the chat just becomes a constant stream of _Egg early, Egg early, Egg early._

It’s not like everyone doesn’t already know—Tito’s never been exactly subtle about anything in his life. It’s just not in his molecular makeup, stamped out by cheeks that flush pink too deeply and ribs that squeeze so tight they knock all the breath from his lungs in an exhale of loud, endless words anytime he watches Mat tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. Mat probably even knows, but they’ve reached some silent agreement where he politely ignores it as a favor to that last shreds of Tito’s remaining dignity.

So really, there’s no point in pretending. 

“I just want to get him something cool,” Tito says, kicking at the wheel of the cart. “Like, I know he can’t fly home for Christmas this year, and he’s super bummed about it, so I thought...I don’t know.”

Ebs’ mouth thins into a tight line before looking down at the cart, pushing aside the pile of festive slipper socks to grab something underneath and hold it out. “Will the dachshund tape dispenser make you feel better?” 

Tito sighs, because not really, but he takes it anyway.

—

Mat’s always trying.

Whether it’s trying to be self-possessed and focused, to keep everything in check during intermission interviews or media scrums, so carefully constructed in nondescript navy suits and quiet, even toned cliches droned at the perfect disaffected cadence. That almost bored half-lidded gaze as he recounts how they _got pucks in deep_ or _really played Islanders hockey_, when he should be as sweaty and breathless as the rest of them, but it’s as if he has the awareness to pull it all back behind this deliberate air of casual artifice. Cliche, shrug, deflect, rinse, repeat, but with the clear self-awareness that he’s playing a part.

The second he’s not careful, though, that marble facade of perfected Canadian stoicism topples with even the slightest push. Mat, Tito thinks, just can’t be contained into something so simple and clean cut, no matter how hard he tries. That delicate presentation of unfocused eyes and lips that barely move sharpens, eyebrows arching and nose scrunching, his mouth fit around the crack of laughter that echoes down ever corridor, every locker room, every hotel lobby. 

Now, though, sitting on the floor in front of Tito’s coffee table, tearing the paper from his straw into tiny pieces, Mat’s muted vibrancy isn’t coupled with a clear purpose. It’s just long drawn out sighs, checking his phone over and over again, picking at the split in the knee of his jeans.

“Yo, me and Ebs were in Target for-fucking-ever last night,” Tito tells him, bringing over two giant glasses of water. “It was like ten at night and the place was still packed, and then Ebs drove me home and blasted this song with a ten-year-old rapping about playing basketball with Shaquille O’Neal, which was like...Barz? Barz.”

Mat blinks, shaking his head before rubbing hands down his face. “Shit, sorry.”

Tito sets the glasses down and sits on the edge of the sofa. “You okay?”

“Yeah just,” Mat pushes out a noisy breath, “tired.”

Mat’s never said outright that he’s upset about not being able to go home to Vancouver for Christmas, but it’s hard to miss the way he folds into himself on the bus or plane, headphones on and eyes shut. The way he’s quiet at meals, pushing his food around on his plate and only half listening to conversations. The only place Tito’s seen him seem alive lately is on the ice, as powerful and purposeful as ever, but it’s starting to crack around the edges, bad penalties and constantly moving-mouth spewing pure vitriol at anyone who gets in his way. Tito kind of likes it when Mat gets unhinged like that, wild-eyed with his teeth bared to the world, but not when it’s contrasted so sharply with this lump on Tito’s living room floor.

He slips down onto the carpet next to Mat, knees bumping. “You sure?”

Mat grunts, collapsing back against the floor, the hem of his sweatshirt riding up, strip of skin above the waistband of his jeans flashing, the shock of dark hair trailing down from his bellybutton. Tito swallows, looking away and reaching for his water as Mat says, “Seids told me I could spend Christmas with him and his family.”

“Oh,” Tito tilts his head. “That’s cool. I mean, like, it’d be weird if he didn’t, ‘cause like...you live with him.”

That doesn’t seem to make Mat feel any better, grim face glaring up at the ceiling until he throws an arm over his eyes. “Yeah.”

“I mean,” Tito scrambles, “y’know, he would’ve wanted you there anyway. That entire family actually likes you, for some reason.”

Mat says nothing, chest rising and falling silently with deep inhales, exhales, like he’s trying to keep it even. 

“Hey,” Tito nudges Mat with his foot, pushing it against his thigh over and over again. “Hey, Barzy, c’mon, man, don’t make me call Bails and ask him to explain the plot of _Cats._”

That actually makes Mat belly laugh, arm slipping out of place. “Fuck no, if I ever hear him talk about cat orgies ever again—”

“I’ll do it—don’t think I won’t!”

Mat rocks forward, sitting up, adjusting his hat where it’s slipped sideways, matching his grin. “Alright, alright. I’m up.”

Tito scans his face, the dark circles under his puffy eyes, the scratchy looking stubble along his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, more pronounced than usual. He asks, “Seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m—” Mat cuts off the autopilot answer he’s been shoveling out to anyone who’s asked over the past week. “I don’t know. I feel...like, not bad, just—Seids doesn’t have a real tree. And I know it’s not a big deal, or whatever, but it’s like this three story tall fake one that Rachel got professionally decorated when we were in California, so I didn’t even get to put anything up.” 

Mat pauses, looking down, crease between his eyebrows. “I know it’s dumb, or whatever, but like, me and my family always put up a real tree, and we’d make cookies and decorate and listen to all the old Christmas songs. I know it’s cheesy, but man, I used to love stuff like that. And that feeling, you know? That feeling you get when you’re a kid...god, I’d give almost anything to feel that again.”

Mat’s voice lifts at the end to match the corners of his mouth, that tired, distant look dissipating as his cheeks flush and his hands start moving. Tito’s heartbeat spikes, thudding hard in his ears, all the way down to his fingertips. He wants to tell Mat it’s not dumb at all, that he understands, that the space in his chest where all his warmth for the holidays used to be holds nothing but an empty ache now. 

But his mouth’s isn’t working right—it just opens and shuts, soundless like a fish, and when Mat notices his already pink cheeks turn red, and he quickly says, “Like I said—stupid, but. Whatever. Yo, where’s our food? I’m fucking starved.”

—

Tito always had a fake tree growing up, perfectly uniform and full with white lights and carefully orchestrated ornament placement by his mom, the perfect balance of pretty glass bulbs and handmade ones, messes of glue and popsicle sticks and glitter. The flood of warmth in his chest sitting wrapped up on the sofa between his parents, all the other lights in the house off save for the ones on the tree, haloed and bright over the glossy wrapped gifts. The older he got, though, with his and his brother’s schedules playing for different teams in different places, the harder it was for the family to all be together on Christmas. There were a few spent snowed in in stark motel rooms, dinners shared over a lagging Skype call, presents opened days, weeks later.

His apartment now...well, it’s pretty much the same as when he moved in, everything in clean cut shades of black and gray, spacious and well lit in a new build in Garden City, with enough closets and cabinets to shove things inside when people come over. He never put much time or effort into decorating other than the entertainment system and the couch and armchair set he probably spent too much money on, much less decorating for the holidays.

“Dude,” Ebs says from his spot perched on the edge of Tito’s counter, mouth full of Bugles. _Tito’s_ Bugles. “Just get a tree from the Sears parking lot—they set up ten thousand of them.”

“I’m not buying a tree from a parking lot,” Tito snaps, eyes never leaving his laptop screen. “It’s gotta be, y’know, _special.”_

“You’re saying a tree that’s been sitting on asphalt for two weeks next to a Chipotle isn’t special?”

Tito bites the inside of his cheek, not wanting to give Ebs the satisfaction of a smile. “Look—like this place, you can go and chop down your own tree.”

Ebs scrunches his nose, peering down at the screen. “It’s like two hours away. You gotta get on the Throgs Neck.”

Tito shrugs. “That’s not that bad.” 

“Aren’t there places here? Like out east, or whatever.”

There are, but like most places on Long Island, they’re simple and compact (and not to mention, pretty much sold out). None of the sprawling hills or snow dappled scenery Tito’s mind keeps churning out. No roadtrip spent sipping Holiday drinks from Starbucks, listening to the carefully curated playlist of Christmas songs Tito may or may not have spent like three hours putting together last night, the perfect blend of classics and newer stuff he thinks Mat might like, with a healthy dash of Michael Buble.

“When are you even going?” Ebs asks.

Tito rubs at the back of his neck. “Schedule’s kind of tight, so probably the first day of break?”

“Christmas Eve,” Ebs says, toneless. “You’re gonna drive two hours to go get a tree on Christmas Eve, the morning after we play Columbus?”

Tito’s jaw ticks. “Yeah, Ebs.”

“And then you’re gonna drive back two hours, over the bridge, with a giant tree strapped to the top of your car.”

“Yo.” Tito glares. “Why are you being a dick about this?” 

“I’m not being a dick.” Ebs slides off the counter. “But like, Barzy doesn’t need some big gesture—you could just like...I don’t know. Watch _Home Alone_ and make cookies or something.”

“We will do that,” Tito says, snapping the laptop shut. “After we get back from chopping down our tree.”

—

The morning of the 24th is miserably wet and rainy, bruised skies hanging low overhead as Tito jogs up the driveway to basement entrance tucked into the back corner of the Seidenbergs’ house. Gloved hands fumble with the keys on his keychain, cursing under his breath until the door finally gives, blast of heat needling right through his chilled skin as Tito pushes inside. He creeps forward, past the open and unpacked suitcases from the night before, around the piles of dirty clothes, the coffee table and sectional cluttered with takeout bags and trash. Mat’s usually pretty good about keeping his space clean; not like, super anal or anything, but he likes things to feel balanced. Tito tries not to think about what that might mean, how out of it Mat must’ve felt if he decided to leave old food out.

He opens Mat’s bedroom door, dark with the heavy curtains on the single small window up towards the ceiling drawn shut. Tito can see the lump in the middle of the bed, rising and falling slowly with soft snores, a lick of hair sticking up at the top of the pillows. He flips the lights on, but Mat doesn’t stir, and when Tito slips in closer, he sees Mat’s open mouthed, drooling face mashed into his pillow, snoring softly, oblivious to the world.

Tito cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and jumps.

“Fuckin’—Jesus—_fuck!”_ Mat shouts, muffled by blankets.

“Wake up!” Tito bounces, driving Mat harder into the mattress, then again, and again. “C’mon, get up!”

_“Beau?”_ Mat croaks, squinting against the light, hair sticking out in all directions. Tito kind of loves seeing Mat like this, unglued with his hair a wreck and his face swollen and creased with pillow lines. He collapses back with a soft whump, groaning, “Man, what the fuck...”

“Get up, Barz, we gotta go,” Tito tells him, swinging his feet back around to meet the floor. He grabs at Mat’s arm and shakes. “You got fifteen minutes, c’mon, get up.”

“Go fucking where?” He reaches blindly for his phone. “Yo, it’s not even nine. We didn’t get home ‘til three—get the fuck away.”

He pulls the comforter back up over his head, cocooning himself with only a single foot sticking out.

“We’re getting a tree, and I wanna beat traffic,” Tito says, giving Mat one last shove. “There’s coffee and bagels in the car, and they’re not gonna stay hot much longer, so we gotta move.”

Fingers curl up around the edge of the blankets, pulling down just enough for a silver of Mat’s face to peak out, eyes gleaming.

—

Mat’s physically incapable of actually getting fully dressed in fifteen minutes, so Tito shuffles out to the car to grab their breakfast. The bagels are still warm when they slice them open in Mat’s kitchenette, cracking open the little plastic container of cream cheese and schmearing it on as Mat struggles to choose between three nearly identical pairs of jeans laid out on the sectional.

“Dude,” Tito manages through a mouthful. “Just pick one already.”

“Okay but,” Mat sighs, reaching for two pairs. “The darker or lighter ones?”

Tito chews. “Which ones are comfier?”

Mat’s eyes narrow, like Tito’s the ridiculous one for asking such an outlandish question. “I mean, these, but—”

“Then wear those.” Tito swallows, reaching for his coffee. “We’re gonna be in the car for a while, and then walking through like, wilderness or whatever.”

Mat looks down at then, then over at the lighter pair. “But these go better with my green jacket…”

“You’re wearing your peacoat?” Tito asks. “Did you miss the part where I said we’d be trekking through the wilderness?”

Mat shrugs. “It’s fine. Like I know it doesn’t get that cold in Quebec, but in BC we’re used to it.”

“Yo, shut up,” Tito throws a balled up napkin at him. “It doesn’t even snow in BC unless you’re in the mountains.”

_“Literal_ lies and slander.”

“Put on pants and eat your fucking bagel, Mathew.”

—

Getting on the LIE is a mistake.

“Why didn’t we just take the Northern State?” Mat grunts, pulling at the strap of his seatbelt.

“Because some truck went under a low overpass, and they can’t clear it out ‘cause the parkway’s too fucking congested.”

“It’s a conspiracy,” Mat mutters against the plastic lid of his coffee. “There’s no actual way on or off this island. It’s like Willy Wonka’s factory or some shit.”

“Man,” Tito says, “That movie was like...so dark. I don’t think I realized when I was little, but he for sure murders a bunch of kids. We don’t see any of them after they disappear.”

“Were the Oompa Loompas,” Mat asks slowly, squinting out into the distance, “like, slave labor?” 

“Barz, man.” Tito scrubs a hand down his face. “I cannot deal with this shit right now. Not when we gotta get over the Throgs Neck, I will literally drive us off the bridge.”

“You’re the one who brought it up!”

“And I regret it. I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.”

“Uh, you used to pop the collar of your polos when we were kids, so. I’d rethink that statement if I were you.”

“That was the style. Sorry not all of us were trying to be pseudo hipsters with fake glasses.”

“One time—one time I wore fake glasses _as a joke.”_

“Uh huh, sure Barzy.” Tito bites at the inside of his cheek to keep a grin from splitting his face. “Whatever you say.”

—

They make it off the island eventually, but after two emergency pit stops to pee and load up on gas station snacks, an impromptu sing-along performance to ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You,’ they’re pretty fucking lost.

“What the fuck is a 9G?” Tito complains, making what is probably a severely illegal three-point turn. “What does the G even stand for? G-spot?”

Mat side-eyes him. “Is that why you can’t find it?”

“Not what your mom said last—ow!” Tito rubs at the spot on his arm Mat just rammed his fist into. “You started it.”

“Now the next time you see my mom, you’re gonna have to look her in the eye and remember you said that.” Mat gives his shoulder another punch for good measure, but he’s grinning.

“How is your mom?” Tito asks after a pause, wondering if it’s a safe topic to breech in such a congested space. On the other hand, it’s not like Mat can escape the conversation like he normally would. 

Mat clears his throat, suddenly fascinated with the plastic tab on the lid of his coffee. “She’s fine. Y’know, bummed, that she won’t see me. And like, probably won’t see her during the All Star break, either. So. Just bummed.”

“Yeah, you’ll be too busy hanging out with Sidney Crosby and Claude Giroux again,” Tito tries for a lighter tone, rolling his eyes. “Must be so hard being so elite all the time.”

He glances over and catches Mat trying on a small smile that doesn’t quite fit. “Yeah, I mean, we were trying to make something work for New Year’s, but. It’s not gonna be the same.”

Tito licks at his bottom lip. “I know you said you were gonna be with Seids for Christmas, but if you wanted, my parents are coming down tomorrow, and like, my mom’s gonna make a big Christmas dinner, and you should-you should come.”

He senses Mat squirming next to him. “I don’t want to—it’s like a family thing—”

“Fuck that, you’re—they love you,” Tito gushes, almost missing the turn again. His hands feel like they’re vibrating, everything threatening to unspool all at once. “I know it’s not the same, or even close, but like. I want you to come.”

There’s a pause, and Tito thinks he’s made a mistake, made Mat more upset, or he’s done it again—made his feelings so obvious Mat can’t do anything but shrug into himself. He was right when he figured Mat couldn’t escape him in a moving vehicle, but he’d conveniently forgotten that fact goes both ways. He swallows, mind racing for something, anything, “If you don’t want to, though, like, that’s fine—”

“No! No, I’ll uh,” Mat starts, and when Tito risks a glance, he sees pink ears. “I’ll think about it.”

Tito swallows. “I mean, yeah, let’s make sure we get through this trip without me murdering you first.”

“Uh, I think you got that backwards, bud.”

—

They finally find the place, off the 9G and through a tiny town centered in what feels like an endless stretch of pastures and rolling hills, pulling up a long stretch of gravel and dirt that makes the whole car shake. The air is crisper, chilled and less damp, Tito’s teeth chattering he rolls the window down all the way at the entrance booth.

“Head right through, gentlemen,” the lady manning the counter motions up towards the hill. “On your right, you’ve got your Balsams, left are the Frasers, and head straight back over the hill for some Douglas. These are the prices—if you need any help or have any questions, feel free to flag one of us down, okay?”

“Thanks. Thank you,” Tito smiles up at her, taking her flyer, and she waves as they roll through, Tito jamming at the window button. “It’s so cold, Jesus.”

“It must’ve just snowed up here,” Mat remarks, looking out over the white hills. “We’re like, only an hour and a half away, and it hasn’t snowed at all on Long Island.”

“It did,” Tito tells him. “We were in Detroit and Florida, though.”

“That doesn’t count. It doesn’t count unless I’m there.” The car jerks as the dirt road dips and bumps, and Mat goes, “I love snow. Hot coco, shinny, sledding…”

“Shoveling,” Tito counters, driving up onto a small clearing near another parked car. “Black ice, frostbite.”

“Man, don’t even pretend you don’t love when it snows.”

Tito bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide, putting the car in park. He does love when it snows. He loves how quiet the world gets, how soft. Instead of saying that, though, he tells Mat, “You only feel that way ‘cause like, it doesn’t _actually_ snow in BC.”

“Fuck off, you elitist French Canadian dick.”

—

He doesn’t know why he thought it was a good idea to let Mat pick out the tree. He should’ve known. He should’ve _known._

“But it’s got like,” Mat motions at the base of what is, by all accounts, a beautiful lush tree that’s pretty much fucking identical the dozens of other trees they’ve looked at, “a bald spot.”

Tito heaves out a huge sigh. “So we put that side towards the back.”

“But I’ll know its there.”

“Fucking—Barz!” Tito explodes. “We’ve been out here for two hours. Just…_pick one.”_

Mat’s long, deep green peacoat and faded jeans, both perfectly tailored and cleancut, can’t be doing anything to keep the cold out, even with the hooded sweatshirt on underneath, tan boots more fashion than function. He seems unbothered, though, his hair artfully windswept, cheeks pink but not splotchy or accented with a drippy nose. Tito scowls—he looks like he just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog or something. 

Mat points. “What about that one?”

Tito sighs, shoulders slumping as he drags the saw he borrowed from Clutter behind him. He can’t even rage text the group chat because he can’t feel his fingers. 

It’s another balsam, same as all the others, but as Mat circles it, careful eyes scanning up and down, noting every tiny deficiency and cataloging in his ridiculous brain, he says nothing. He reaches out, feeling a branch with his bare hand, tugging on the needles, and Tito braces himself for another long bout of _it looks nice, but I’m not sure it can hold heavy ornaments._

Mat steps back, hands on his hips. “Is it too tall?”

“It’s a tree, man. They’re all tall.”

“I mean,” Mat says, “For your apartment. How tall is your ceiling?”

Tito blinks. He’d been operating under the assumption they’d bring the tree to Mat’s, but now they he thinks about it...half of the basement is a shared space with Seids’ kids, and the only spots with enough room are the kitchenette, which would be weird and probably a fire hazard, and the small living room where it could only go between the sectional and the TV. 

“Uh.” Tito winces. “I don’t...I have no clue. It doesn’t look _that_ tall, and we can take some inches off the bottom.”

Mat tucks hair behind his ears. “You sure?”

“Yes. Yeah.” Tito jumps, nearly slipping on a patch of iced over snow. “Is this it? Please tell me this is it.”

“I mean.” Mat reaches out to touch the branch again. “It’s kind of perfect.”

Tito doesn’t waste another second, just crouches down at the base of the tree where the branches start to thin out, and poises the serrated blade against the trunk.

It’s a little harder than it looked in the youtube videos he watched, and he has to shuck his jacket and gripless gloves. In long, even strokes he saws away, bits of wood dust swirling as the wind picks up. Tito shakes out his hands one at a time, trying to keep the numbness from setting in, breathing getting harder as he grunts with every push and pull. 

“Woah, okay,” Mat says, stepping forward with his hands out. “Why don’t you like, get ready to catch it, and I’ll finish it off, yeah?”

Tito wants to say no, but the ache in his fingers is demanding otherwise, so he sighs, standing.

Mat shrugs off his coat, tugging up his sleeves, and Tito walks around to the back of the tree, because Christ, he can’t just stand there and watch Mat saw a tree down. Not with his forearms on full display and his ridiculous thighs straining against his tight, _tight_ jeans. 

“Jesus,” Mat grunts, tree vibrating with his efforts as Tito holds onto the trunk through the branches. “This is hard, what the fuck. I thought you were just being a weenie.”

“Uh, remind me—who came in behind _who_ during the run at training camp?”

“Fuck off,” Mat huffs. Tito risks a glance, Mat’s straining forearms working, hair in his flushed face. Tito snaps back behind the tree, heart thudding. “I kicked your ass during the scrimmage.”

“I just don’t understand how a guy,” Tito tries to sound light, normal, “who’s so fast on ice is so fucking slow on land.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Mat laughs. The tree stops vibrating. “It’s not even the sawing—my hands are so cold I can’t get a grip.”

“So you’re admitting,” Tito asks, “that you’re cold?”

“I said my hands are cold, not me.”

“Are you not attached to your hands, and I just never noticed?”

“Fuck you—” the tree finally gives, snap cutting Mat off as Tito steadies it, full weight sagging into him. Mat blows out a huge breath, his cheeks puffing as he rests the saw over his shoulder with one hand, the other pushing his hair back from his sweaty, red face. “And _that’s_ how it’s done.”

Tito snorts, easing to tree to the ground. “Yeah, okay, like I didn’t do the hard part.”

“You tapped out before you even got halfway through—my _balls_ you did the hard part.”

Tito’s laugh comes out as more of a wheeze, and when grabs his jacket he looks back down the hill. “Should I try to drive the car up here?”

“Uh.” Mat looks back over the distance they’d meandered across. “I don’t think you’ll be able to bring it that much closer with all the trees.”

“Whelp,” Tito goes, popping the ‘p’ as he pulls his jacket back on. “Grab the top, I’ll grab the bottom.”

—

“Don’t let it roll on me!”

“I’m not letting it roll on you.”

“It feels like you’re letting it roll on me.”

“That gravity, Barzy—you’re downhill.”

Mat, for all his bitching, is laughing the whole way down—that stupid, high pitched giggle that bubbles up into an echo, hair falling in his cold bitten face. Tito has to stop staring, has to pay attention to where he’s going otherwise he’s going to send both of them barreling down onto the dirt road. And he does not want to be the one to explain to Lou that he broke Mat Barzal’s ankle in a freak Christmas tree accident. Tito likes his organs inside of his body, _thankyouverymuch._

“Okay, okay,” Mat says as they finally close to the car, hair flopped over one eye. “Hold on.”

“Okay.”

“Beau, I said _hold on.”_

“I am holding on!”

“No, you’re fucking still going—stop turning, asshole.” 

“I have to unlock car.”

“You’re pushing me back into the snow!”

“Thought you loved snow, Barz.”

Mat’s entire body is shaking with laughter, and it’s jiggling the tree. “I hate you. I hate you so goddamn much.”

Tito bites at his bottom lip, reaching frozen fingers into his back pocket, past his phone and wallet, digging for his keys. “Where the fuck—”

The wail of the car alarm cuts him off, startling Mat into dropping his end of the tree, his feet flying out from underneath him, arms windmilling as he slams backwards, skidding down the rest of the hill.

Tito drops the tree, scrambling. “Jesus, are you—”

“I’m fine,” Mat’s groan warbles up from where he’s curled over, half in a puddle. “I’ve got fucking mud everywhere, but I’m fine.”

One beat, then another, before Tito’s laugh busts out of him with the ferocity of a punch, doubling over as Mat wobbles onto his feet, dark skid of brown mud all down the back of his coat and jeans. He sees the twig sticking up out of the back of Mat’s hair and absolutely loses it.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” Mat huffs, trying to dust himself off. “I’m getting in _your_ car.”

Tito can’t answer, he’s too busy clutching his gut. “It—you—like a _fucking cartoon—”_

Mat scrapes together a sad little snowball and launches it at Tito’s head, just barely clipping his shoulder, but the force is enough to send an already off-balance Tito falling back onto his ass into a giant pit of slush. Tito’s still laughing though, echoed only by Mat’s boom of a cackle, so big and so loud the sky can barely hold all of it.

—

They manage to fit the tree into the car on an angle when they fold down Tito’s back seat, fresh breath of woods and winter smothering the previously stale smell of sweat and old McDonalds. Mat spends another half-hour running around the store, buying handmade wreaths and jars of local preserves, but it’s almost worth it for the way he worries his thumbnail between his teeth, staring down at the pie display before asking, “But what flavor does your mom like?”

Tito’s entire chest swells, and he doesn’t even care that he’s essentially carrying half the shop in his arms, the other half in the wagon behind him. “Can’t go wrong with apple.”

They’re gonna hit traffic no matter what, so they grab dinner at a weird little college town cafe that has the most uncomfortable chairs Tito’s ever sat in, but the most incredible fries, thick cut and perfectly crispy and just greasy enough. 

Mat tries to discreetly smooth out his hair as the waitress drops off the rest of their food—the wind and sweat and mud has wrecked it, curled at the ends, sticking up and out in all directions. Almost as hopeless as the state of his once pristine and carefully considered outfit, now streaked with dirt and grass stains.

About halfway through his burger, Mat says, “I don’t want to get back in the car.”

“Man.” Tito presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “We have to.”

“We’re literally gonna hit the bridge,” Mat says, “at the worst time.”

Tito points. “Well if someone didn’t spend two hours picking out a tree—”

“The perfect tree.”

“—we would’ve been home a lot sooner.”

Mat swirls a fry through some ketchup, 'Jingle Bell Rock' crackling overhead. “Kind of weird, eh?”

“What?” Tito frowns. “The ketchup?”

“No,” Mat snorts. “I mean calling Long Island home.”

Tito’s hand pauses halfway to his mouth, crease between his eyebrows. It takes a moment to parse what Mat’s said from what Mat meant. He’s well practiced enough at it—Mat loves saying things that are so staunchly neutral on the surface, but just below that there are layers and depths, colored by the twist of fingers through napkins, the tuck of hair behind ears, lips caught between teeth and eyes that never settle on just one thing. 

“A little,” Tito finally answers. “Maybe. But like, also not really. When you think about it.”

Mat’s eyes flicker up, sharp in contrast to the blur of tinsel and twinkle lights just beyond straightening shoulders. “You’re right,” Mat says, “I guess not.”

—

It goes from watery blue to pitch black in what feels like a matter of blinks once they get back on the Taconic. The roads twist and curve around hills, rivers, and anytime Tito picks up real speed, he has to grind down on his brakes to make a tight turn as he listens to Mat reading and cackling at Ebs’ live-texts from his first ever trip to Costco. _ok i kno i dont NEED a box of 246 fishsticks but ….how can i say no ?_

“Oh my god,” Tito says, pointing at the passing sign. “There’s a place called Tuckahoe.”

“Fuck, I gotta get a picture.” Mat scrambles for his phone. “Slow down.”

“I’m on a parkway—I can’t just _slow down.”_

“Then you’re gonna have to go back.”

“Right, because if I can’t slow down, I can definitely throw it in reverse.”

Mat laughs, face wedging, and Tito’s heart rate skyrockets in a way that can’t be healthy. He clears his throat, fiddling with the air vent on his left when he hears, “Too hot?”

His already thumping heartbeat triples. “What?”

“The heat?” Mat says, pointing. “I turned it up, but if it’s too much—”

“No, no,” Tito cuts him off, waving a hand. “It’s good, I just didn’t want it blowing on my face anymore.”

“You sure?” Mat asks. “‘Cause you look kind of red…”

“‘M fine,” Tito sniffs, rubbing at his nose with the end of his sleeve. A quiet settles between them, radio churning out another round of Christmas songs from Tito’s playlist, soft and unyielding in their goopiness. He hadn’t realized when he put it together how absolutely fucking cheesy some of these songs are, tooth achingly saccharine shit about holding hands in the snow and kissing under mistletoe. Some of the more up-tempo stuff could be shrugged away, sappiness a trade off for catchy energy, but these sweeping slow ones...He grips the steering wheel, flushing down to the collar of his shirt because god, he couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d tried—

“I like this song.”

Tito startles out of his thoughts, pulse hammering in his ears. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mat says. “Way more than that no-homo Michael Buble version of ‘Santa Baby’ you played earlier, that’s for sure.”

“Oh c’mon—it’s so funny!” Tito clears his throat. _“Santa buddy, it’s not gay if it’s just hand stuff, I swear.”_

“Like, he did not have to sing that song,” Mat says. “There are so many other Christmas songs that aren’t about banging Santa for presents. And he definitely did not have to sing the word hotties so aggressively at us, the poor, unsuspecting masses.”

Tito gags. “Don’t remind me—I black that part out every time I hear it.”

_“And_ it’s suspiciously gender neutral.” Mat taps at his chin. “Maybe the whole song is actually a cry for help.”

“I mean,” Tito says, face squishing with mock-sympathy, “he _does_ ask for Canucks tickets.”

Mat busts out laughing, immediately making a grab for Tito’s phone, and skips until he gets to the song he wants.

—

He knew the bridge was gonna be a shitshow. He knew there was no way that 5pm the day before Christmas was going to be anything short of catastrophic, and he’d made peace with that. He’s used to New York traffic now, after all.

But he’s running on only four-ish hours of sleep, and it’s been a long ass day, and they’ve been in the car now for almost double the amount of time it was supposed to take to get home, and everyone is pulling the absolute most piece of shit moves despite the fact that there’s _no where to fucking go._ Every lane is dead stop traffic, and if the shitass Jeep behind him lays on the horn one more goddamn time, he’s going to—

“This,” Mat says, breaking through Tito’s thoughts, “is literally the boat ride from Willy Wonka. Like when they go on an acid trip through the tunnel.”

Tito lets out a loud _pfft._ “Your analogy would work better if we actually like, moving.”

Mat squints out the windshield. “Is it an analogy or a metaphor?”

_“Or,”_ Tito says, “what if it’s a simile?”

“I mean, all similes are technically metaphors, so....”

“Yo, then why did they fucking drill the difference into our heads every fucking school year?”

Mat lets out a noisy sigh. “I don’t know, man. I’m a hockey player, not an English major.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—English is stupid.”

“Careful, Anthony, your French Canadian is showing.”

In easy, eloquent French, Tito says, _“Suck my dick, Mathew.”_

Mat opens his mouth, about to say something when his phone buzzes in his lap. He looks down and the screen. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Ebs is still in Costco.”

_“What?”_

“He says he’s been there for three hours and he’s got four shopping carts. He had to call Leeber and Zeeker to come help him, and now he’s all pissed because all they’re doing is putting all the shit he grabbed back.”

It’s probably a good thing they’re not moving, because Tito is laughing so hard he starts crying, red tail lights blurring in front of him, and Mat Facetimes Anders as he runs through the freezer section with an industrial sized tub of mayo cradled in his free arm like a baby, Ebs shouting in the background.The traffic is still awful, and it takes them another forty-five minutes to actually get onto the Cross Island, but honestly Tito doesn’t mind. Not much.

—

The tree doesn’t fit.

“Okay,” Tito breathes out, wiping sweat off his forehead. They hadn’t been able to figure out how to fit the tree into the elevator, so after what felt like twenty years of trying and some very pointed throat clearing from a lady and her Pomeranians, they decided to just carry it up the four flights of stairs. After all that, it took about five seconds after getting into the apartment to realize it just wasn’t going to fit, jammed into the corner with the top bent against the ceiling. “So we’ll take off part of the bottom. Just let me go get the saw—”

“You can’t just cut off the bottom,” Mat says, flapping a hand at the tree. He’s covered in needles, dark splotches under his arms where he’s sweat through his shirt, dried mud up and down his pants. Tito probably doesn’t look much better. “Then you have to take off the bottom branches, and suddenly it’s a whole different tree.”

“Well, it’s either that, or it stays bent!”

Mat gets that pinched look on his face, the one he has when he’s deeply annoyed but trying (and failing) not to show it, eyes half-lidded and mouth slanted. Tito scrubs a hand through his hair—he hates when Mat gets like this, weird and standoffish and pretending nothing’s wrong. He’d rather Mat just be annoying and bratty and dramatic, he’d rather Mat complain and go on and on forever about whatever. Anything but this faux-coolness.

Mat’s gaze flickers around the room when his eyes catch on something, zeroing in, the way Tito’s only see him focus on a moving puck. He turns, looking behind him to the sliding glass doors that lead out onto—

“Jesus Christ.” Tito rubs hands over his face. “You can’t be serious.”

But Mat’s already yanking the door open and stepping out onto the balcony. “There’s like, a whole extra half foot of space. Yo, there’s even an outlet!”

Tito cocks an eyebrow, arms crossed as he comes up to lean against the door frame. “Yeah? You gonna let me move into the basement with you when the super kicks me out?”

Mat shrugs, like he doesn’t realize Tito’s joking. “Seids won’t mind.”

Tito gapes at him for a moment before his mouth snaps shut with an audible click, staring at Mat framed by nighttime, looking back at Tito as cold air pushes hair into his face, eyebrows lifting as he shifts his weight from sock clad foot to foot. Tito can’t tell if he’s shivering, or just excited.

He deflates with one huge exhale. “I guess it’s a good thing I got plastic ornaments.”

Mat’s face lights up, brighter than Rockefeller Center. Brighter than any city anywhere.

—

He drives to Clutter’s to give him back his hacksaw on his way to pick up the Chinese they ordered, because Clutter seems like a man who can’t go too long without his hacksaw, and Tito’s proven right when Clutter gives him a quietly appreciative nod at the door. So Tito figures he might as well ask, “Do you like, have any weights I can borrow?”

Clutter snorts, pushing at Tito’s shoulder. “Finally trying to beef up?”

“Not lifting weights—also fuck you, I’m swole as hell.” 

Clutter cocks an eyebrow, gaze dipping down, then up again. “Sure, uh-huh. Whatever you say.”

Tito jams his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders shrugging up towards his cold ears. “I mean weights to weigh something down. Like, uh, a Christmas tree you’re putting up on your balcony that you don’t want to get knocked over by the wind and accidentally kill someone walking by below.”

Clutter stares at him in the doorway for a beat, then retreats silently into his house without another word. Tito leans in, everything dark and quiet beyond the foyer, save for the sound of distant doors opening and slamming, feet thundering down step and then booming back up. When he reemerges, he’s got two heavy looking sacks over each shoulder.

“Sandbags,” he says by way of an explanation, heaving one into Tito’s chest without warning. Tito’s, trying to maintain that he is, in fact, swole as hell, chokes back an _oof_ and manages to keep himself upright. “Should do the trick.”

“Why,” Tito asks slowly, “do you have sandbags just lying around?”

A shrug. “I needed them.”

Tito thinks maybe he’s better off just not knowing, bracing himself as Clutter lifts the other sandbag and plops it onto his free shoulder.

—

When he gets back, sandbags and Chinese takeout in tow, there’s a wreath on his door—one of the fresh ones decorated with pinecones and ribbons, tiny hand painted cardinals nestled between the branches. Tito’s eyebrows lift as he pushes inside, the heavy scent of pine hitting him as he stares in quiet wonderment. The garland and lights intertwined, strung from corner to corner, poinsettias placed on every available surface, bows on the end tables and kitchen cabinets. Mat’s in the middle of it all, ornaments spread out across the couch and coffee table, looping hooks through each one.

“Did you seriously,” Mat asks, “Get blue and orange ornaments?”

Tito’s face prickles with heat. “Uh...maybe?”

“That’s so fucking cheesy,” Mat says, but he’s grinning, pulling out the loops of silver garland from the plastic bags on the floor. He does a double take when he realizes what Tito’s carrying, frowning. “What—”

“Sandbags,” Tito grunts, dropping them onto the floor. “So the whole tree doesn’t go flying over the railing.”

“Where—” Mat stops himself. “Oh. Clutter.”

“Yeah,” Tito sighs. “I tried to ask why he had them, and he was all like, weird and secretive about it.”

“Definitely some cryptid shit.”

“Definitely.”

Mat makes a face at burlap sacks “They’re kind of ugly…”

“You’re kind of ugly,” Tito lies. “I’m not gonna be responsible for accidentally murdering someone so close to Christmas, Barz—put bows on ‘em or something.”

They manage to get the tree into the stand and out onto the balcony without breaking anything, looking straight enough to get past Mat’s critical eye after a few adjustments, Tito sprawled out on his belly, screwing and unscrewing pegs with freezing fingers until Mat’s steps back for the fourth time and gives it a small hum of approval. They lug out the sandbags and place them around the base, giving it a few good shoves to test the resistance, but the tree holds steady. 

“Hold on,” Mat says behind him, followed by the whoosh of the sliding door. “We can’t do this without tunes.”

He comes back out with the wireless speaking, familiar melody wafting across and balcony, and Tito flushes—it’s _his_ playlist. There’s a deep tug in his chest, suspiciously close to where his heart might be, and he finishes wrapping lights around the railing while desperately, desperately trying not to read anything into it.

“Should we have gone with the white ones?” Mat says, leaning way, way too far over the railing. 

“Yo,” Tito says, grabbing Mat by the waist and pulling him back. “Do not friggin’ fall over the side—I’m not telling Lou you died from decorating.”

“I’m not gonna fall, relax.” Mat rolls his eyes, hands tangled in bunches white string lights. “But if I did, I hope you’re ready for a bunch of Oompa Loompas to come out and start singing about all my fatal character flaws.”

“Wait, like.” Tito grins. “Oompa LOUmpas—like, same outfits and makeup, but they all have Lou’s face.”

“I hate you.” Mat’s entire body is shaking from laughter. “I hate you, we’re not friends, and you’re going to jail. You just violated like, every part of the Geneva Convention.”

“No jury in the world would convict me.”

—

Unsurprisingly, Mat’s just as anal about getting the lights perfect as he was about picking out the tree, wrapping and rewrapping until it looks as even as possible throughout the branches, Tito’s fingers going numb. He presses them gratefully around the warm thermos Mat brings out, popping the lid and taking a long sip of the coffee inside.

When he looks back, Mat’s eyeing the tree, nose scrunching in the way that spells nothing but trouble. “Lower.”

“Barzy,” Tito sighs, “if I go any lower I’m gonna end up in the apartment below me.”

“Just like, a quarter inch.”

“A quarter _inch?_ You’ve been in America way too long.”

Still, he ducks down and adjusts the bottom strand of lights so they’re closer to the floor, wobbling back up onto his feet with the help of the ice cold railing. Beyond the wrought iron, he can see over towards the main road, colored lights shaped into winking snowflakes and curled ribbons arching across the lanes of traffic, building windows and headlights twinkling in place of the stars that stay hidden by a sleet of overcast black. He exhales, visible breath pluming up around him, music starting up in a low croon.

“Hey.”

He feels Mat come up behind him, warmth radiating off of him in waves. Tito’s eyes slip shut for a second, remembering the time they accidentally fell asleep in the same bed on a frigid road game out in Calgary. Mat curled towards him, a human furnace Tito had drifted closer and closer to during the night. He thinks about how neither of them ever said anything about it. How neither of them ever says anything.

Tito turns, tree twinkling behind Mat. “Hey.”

“Uh, so,” Mat stops himself, shuffling his weight from foot to foot as he looks down, pushing back the hair that falls in his face. “This whole day, I know I’ve been a huge pain in the ass, but. I’m really happy we did it, and just...thank you.”

Tito’s cheeks burn, voice straining to sound even, “Yeah, you are a huge pain in the ass.”

Mat snorts, shoving at Tito’s shoulder.

“But,” Tito shrugs, smile wobbly. “Me, too. I’m happy we did it, too.”

Mat’s looking at him, unblinking, bottle green eyes swimming with light cast from railing. Suddenly they flicker up, catching on something above. “Oh.”

Tito turns, and he sees it. Snowflakes. 

He’s seen snow every winter every year of his life, and still somehow it always feels like the first. Like it’s all too much, every atom burning like a star, lighting up his aching chest. He breathes in deep, letting winter air fill him, all of him. As much as he can stand it, gentle swell of music reaching up from behind them, _"You would come back home to me, and we can walk the streets and they can hear us sing..."_

“I—” he hears Mat say, so soft Tito thinks he might have imagined it. 

He looks back. Mat’s got white dotted throughout his hair, caught in curls of dark locks. Before Tito realizes what he’s doing, he reaches out and tucks hair behind Mat’s ear, once twice. He’s close, close enough that he can see Mat has snowflakes in his eyelashes, too, eyes locked, and it dawns on him in one gut-wrenching moment what he’s done, frozen.

Mat leans in and kisses him. 

A hand curls around the back of his neck, and when they part softly Tito’s inhale is sharp, like he’s in pain. He is in pain. It’s too much, it’s all too much, threatening to burst through the dam of his ribs and flood his entire body. He slides his hands up into Mat’s hair and pulls him back, hotter, heavier, until they melt, Mat’s tongue in his mouth, his hands under Tito’s sweater, pressing him back against the railing. And Tito’s not cold anymore. Not even a little.

He nips at Mat’s bottom lip as he moves away, foreheads pressed together. He doesn’t want this to be over, doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he has to when he hears Mat say, “Beau.”

Mat’s nose and cheeks are red, eyes huge, reflecting all the light around them. 

“We have to,” Mat swallows, “finish the tree.”

Tito nods, not trusting his voice.

“Then maybe we can go inside,” he goes on, hands heavy on Tito’s waist. “And we can keep—”

He squeezes at Tito’s waist, bringing them flush together. Tito angles his face up, mouth feeling so full and swollen and needy, his hands curling into the lapels of Mat’s coat. Mat folds, kissing him again, humming against Tito’s lips, parting sweetly. Tito can see it so clearly, waking up tomorrow morning to a quiet, snow quilted world, kissing with nothing but warm sheets between them. 

Mat pulls away with a soft pop, pausing before he says, “Seriously, we have to finish the tree.”

“Oh my god,” Tito laughs. “You obsessed weirdo, _fine._ Hand me an ornament.”

“Uh.” Mat blinks, pulling back. “Hold on.”

Tito blinks, whoosh of cold air filling the space Mat used to be as he opens the glass doors and jumps inside. Tito’s jelly knees finally give out, catching himself against the railing, something stuck halfway between a breath and a laugh escaping him as he pushes a hand through his hair. His lips are still buzzing.

“I almost forgot,” Mat’s voice leads him back onto the balcony, and Tito straightens. “I threw it in my bag before we left. Sorry it’s uh, not wrapped.”

He holds out a small white box, and Tito takes it—it’s got a bit of weight to it, for its size, and he pops the lid open, pulling out the white styrofoam on top to reveal a silver snowflake ornament inside. Light spills across its curved surface as he lifts it by the thread loop, spinning slowly to reveal a small picture at the center. It’s him and Mat, from when they played together years back, at some team dinner. They’re so young. Tito’s throat tightens, burn pulling behind his eyes.

“I know it’s not as...it’s kind of lame, compared to everything you did today,” Mat swallows. “But. Uh.”

“Shut up, it’s perfect,” Tito tells him, rubbing the pad of his finger over their huge smiles. “This is...it’s perfect. Thank you.”

The corners of Mat’s mouth lift, leaning forward to peer down at the picture. “Look at me, trying to like, schmooze you.”

Tito looks up, cocking an eyebrow. “Schmooze?”

“Yeah, like, arm around the shoulder, leaning in all close,” Mat says, letting out a small snort. “I thought I was being so slick.”

Tito’s mind races, flipping through slices of memory for any moment that he might’ve missed, somehow, in the thick of his own tidal wave feelings. He swallows. “Well, uh, you’ve never been slick in your life, so.”

“Really?” Mat leans against the railing with one hand, closer, hair wind tossed and eyebrow lifting as his gaze flickers down, then up again, warm and close and intent. “Not ever?”

Tito’s cheeks heat. “Nope. Never.”

Another soft laugh escapes Mat as he looks down, sitting in the still air between them for a pause. There’s a lot, Tito thinks, that he doesn’t know. About a lot of things. About Mat.

“It’s going right at the top,” Tito says, pushing forward towards the tree, reaching up. “Like, right under the star.”

Mat’s quiet for a second. “Maybe a little more, um, centered?”

“Nope,” Tito says, “it’s my gift, and I get to put it how I want.”

“But it’s not symmetrical,” Mat stresses.

“It’s fine, Barzy.”

“It’s—”

Through the still open door, the apartment buzzer starts going off, their attention snapping to the flashing intercom an entire world and a sofa away. Mat frowns at him, and Tito shrugs, because there’s only one way to find out. Skin defrosting in sharp pinpricks inside now, Tito squints at the small monitor above the speaker. “It’s Ebs.”

Mat calls across the room. “Did you tell him to come?”

“No.” Tito hits the buzzer, pressing his lips together and bringing a hand up to try and smooth out his wrecked hair. Ebs isn’t what most would call perceptive, but Tito feels flayed open, details written across his ribs, pictures pinned to raw nerves. He doesn’t think Ebs would be a dick about it, but like, Tito doesn’t even know what’s happening, except that Mat kissed him, and likes him, and has for a while, maybe? God.

Half a minute later Ebs comes blundering through in a puffy parka and neon orange toque, two giant plastic tubs in his hands that Tito frowns down at. “I accidentally bought five gallons of chocolate chip cookie dough. Merry Christmas.”

He holds up the buckets, the flimsy handles pulled taut from the weight.

“Again with these non-metric system measurements.” Tito makes a face. “Also, fuck you, I’m not taking those.”

“Beau, I will die if you don’t take them. They’ll find me in the Coliseum parking lot with my stomach blown up, because I will literally eat every fucking ounce of raw cookie dough if I keep this at my house.”

Tito purses his lips. “That sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”

Ebs opens his mouth, about to come back with something when he freezes and makes a face. “Is your tree outside?”

He shoves a bucket into Tito’s chest, ignoring the _oof_ of pain as he pushes past and out onto the balcony. Tito grumbles under his breath, lugging the cookie dough up onto his kitchen counter before rezipping his coat and following Ebs back outside.

“Wow,” Ebs says, voice colored in genuine surprise. “You really did it.”

Ebs steps closer, tugging at the end of a branch with an ungloved hand. Tito can’t stop his eyes from looking over at the spot Mat had him pinned against just minutes ago, can’t stop feeling like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin, like every move he makes and word he says is a giant flashing neon sign.

Tito crosses his arms tightly, forcing himself to look away, eyes narrowing at the top of the tree. “You moved it, didn’t you?”

“What? No,” Mat lies, pointedly looking anywhere but the snowflake ornament. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“This is a really nice tree,” Ebs cuts in, pushing branches aside. “Nice thick, straight trunk...still green and full all over…I mean, it’s probably super dumb to have it out here, but me and Hallsy tried to start a bonfire indoors once, so. I can’t really judge.”

“See?” Mat stresses. “I’m not the only one who looks at that stuff.”

Tito rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because that story clearly demonstrated how Ebs is a really good measurement of rational and well-adjusted thought.”

“Obviously.” Mat grins. “Maybe Canada should get rid of the metric system altogether and just measure things in units of Ebs.”

Tito gasps, _“Ebsurement.”_

“Aw,” Ebs coos, touching the snowflake. “How cute—when was this taken, like a year ago?”

“What_ever_ gramps,” Mat scoffs, rolling his eyes and picking up the second tub of cookie dough Ebs had dropped by the door. He swings it at Ebs. “Go preheat the oven to 350 Ebergrees. We’re baking this whole thing.”

Tito tilts his head. “Is that in Ebenheit or Cebscius?” 

“Okay,” Ebs says, nose scrunching. “Now you guys’re just reaching.”

—

They put the cookies in and finish up the tree while they bake, letting Ebs put the star on top, and then letting Mat adjust the star for a few minutes. But Ebs doesn’t mind, because Ebs doesn’t mind most things, and Tito for some godforsaken reason actually finds it charming. The tree is a monstrosity of blue and orange and shimmering tinsel garland, but it’s kind of perfect, and Tito kind of loves it.

“Holy shit,” he says, blowing on his hands. “Can we please go inside now?”

Mat snorts, elbowing Ebs. “French Canadians, eh? Little bit of chill and they can’t function.”

“Pfft, weenies,” Ebs says, trying to spin a leftover ornament on his finger like a basketball.

Tito’s eyes narrow into slits, and he swiftly steps through the sliding glass door and slams it shut behind him, lock snapping into place with a satisfying click.

He has to let them back in eventually, though, because there’s still Chinese food left to pick at, cookies to shovel into their mouths, movies they’ve all already seen a thousand times to watch again. Ebs, like the old man that he is, passes out halfway through _Elf,_ snoring with head thrown over the back of the armchair. Mat takes about three hundred photos and videos—Tito has a feeling the group chat’s going to stop copying and pasting ‘egg early’ in favor of flooding it with pictures of Ebs’ chocolate smeared, drooling face.

“I’m setting this as my background,” Mat giggles quietly, facing Tito on the couch, a fuzzy throw blanket thrown over them so if Ebs wakes up he won’t see their tangled legs. Mat still has music playing on his phone, low and slow, all the lights turned off save for the strands hung up around the apartment.

Tito can’t stop himself, and doesn’t have to stop himself anymore, from reaching out and pushing a hand through Mat’s tangled hair. Mat leans into the touch, soft sound escaping him, and Tito is so sure that sound is going to live inside of him for the rest of his life, replaying on a loop like a favorite song in his heart. 

Mat says, just above a whisper with his lips moving against the palm of Tito’s hand, “Thank you.”

Tito’s mouth slants. “You already said that.”

“Not for the tree,” Mat tells him, eyes opening. “For making it feel like Christmas again.”

Tito’s chest squeezes, too tight and too full, and he can’t do anything else except lean in.

“Beau…” Mat murmurs, a pinch between his eyebrows. “Uh. Maybe—” 

“Oh my _god,”_ Tito groans, throwing his head back. “Yes, fine, we’ll switch the lights on the railing to white ones so they match the tree.”

Mat pulls him back in, and Tito feels a smile against his lips, kissing him again, and again, and again. 

Outside, snow keeps falling.

_/end._

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from 'I'll Be Home For Christmas.' Lyrics used in this fic are from ['Merry Christmas Baby' by Brighten](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJSGDphWX1M)
> 
> happy holidays everyone :) thanks for reading


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